Our granddaughter spent two nights at our house last week -- without her parents. 

It was a big deal for all concerned.  Her mother called roughly every half hour to make sure that things were going well.  My wife and I focused our entire attention on the little girl every hour of the day and night, which is a different technique than the one we used when our kids were little.  As I remember, before they got old enough to work we would just throw them a ham every now and then and tell them to stay out of the way.  But, times change, and I’m an adaptable guy.

And, truthfully, the full time efforts of two adults were just barely enough to keep up. 

The big issue, of course, was sleeping.  For some reason, my family does not consider me a calming influence around small children, so bedtime was solely my wife’s responsibility and involved bathing, soothing books and soft lighting.  I was banished from bed time duty about a quarter of a century ago, after it was discovered that I told a slightly altered version of Snow White in which she tamed a pack of wolves and used them to attack Bambi, after which they all ate deer jerky. 

I may have forgotten a few of the finer details of the story, but the kids certainly seemed to enjoy it - until the lights went out.

Whatever my wife’s technique, it seemed to work.  It was all quiet on the bedroom front by 8:30. When I went in about 10:30, our bed was piled with a doll, a stuffed animal, Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head and, of course, a baby sleeping sideways.  It looked very peaceful, but after sizing up the situation, I went out to sleep on the couch.  I think it was the best decision for all concerned.  I couldn’t find a blanket that covered my toes and shoulder, so I didn’t actually get what most people would consider a full night’s sleep, but I’ve had worse.  Plus, I’m guessing that having Mr. Potato Head stick me in the ribs while I tried to sleep in my actual bed would have been worse.

The next morning, we loaded up with treats, toys, and juice, headed to church, and slid into the back pew only five minutes late.  About five minutes after that, the wiggling reached a tipping point.  I had worked my way through about two thirds of my anti-wiggling gambits and was getting a little desperate.  We made it all the way through one hymn and half of the first Scripture lesson, and then I looked at her and thought, “You need to pick the hills you’re willing to die for.”   I suggested a walk.  We wandered out the door of the church and spent the rest of the hour checking out a nearby playground.

I know, I’m a coward, but even though I haven’t had anyone sign off on the theology, I think God understands.  After all, the hour in the playground did quite a bit for the spiritual well being of both me and my granddaughter, not to mention what it did for the Christianity of everyone in church who didn’t have to put up with what had all the makings of a long ordeal.